


haunted names, feigned breaths

by vampiricvibe



Category: Mythic Quest: Raven's Banquet (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Self-Acceptance, bit of trans ianpoppy for the soul, pops helps him with that, stealth ian gives away the fact hes trans and has never.. really reconciled with it before, trans ian grimm, trans poppy li
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29723871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampiricvibe/pseuds/vampiricvibe
Summary: ian's always been macho. exaggerated masculinity cloaked in all-black and a gym hidden away for his lonesome self. but the stealth method can only go on for so long until someone finds out, until his image is torn irreparably. thankfully, it's only poppy li.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	haunted names, feigned breaths

**Author's Note:**

> idc how many cis ppl watch this these characters sure as hell arent cis (set right after the blood ocean finale ep)

“Ian.”

He always loved that name. When separated from its origin, at least. Ian… Rolls off the tongue, effortlessly, similar to how ice-cream melts down a cone, on a hot summer's day, decietfully sugary sweet but then his whole face shrivels - white vanilla ice cream to strawberry to red berry puree, it tastes like iron, like blood from an open wound that infects your whole fucking bloodstream until you end up in intensive care. Albeit the salt water didn’t help much. What the fuck. This analogy’s going nowhere.

“ _Ian?_ ”

He turns from his mirror - extra as always, wiggling his hands like some grand magician (Wait, no, that only supports Jo’s Criss Angel comment--) and the sun, shining in from his skylight catches his battalion of rings melded with his fingers like irremovable brass knuckles, and flashes this glare right back into Poppy’s glasses. They squint, and go blind for a second.

“Ah--fuck!”

“Oh, ah - sorry Pops,” He hides his hands behind his back and almost imitates a peppy choirboy, “What--what are you doing in here?”

“Oh, uh, I was just - I just wanted to thank you about this.”

Well, naturally, of course _ they had to, I _ mean, how could they not-- “Hey, it’s no problem Pop. You clearly needed a bit of validation,” he takes a breath, “Actually - everybody did. And I mean, it’s not like they didn’t earn it.” Poppy and their promotion, Michelle and the workers getting paid overtime, David and his soft serve machine... That’s!  _ That’s _ what made him think of ice cream! He needs to get some of that later, the weather’s been hotter than usual lately and--

“You’re actually being somewhat humble for once? Never thought I’d see the day.”

He blinks. Huh. Oh yeah. They were thanking him, gotta stop zoning out so much. “The noble man must make his sacrifices.”

“Sacrifices?”

By the tone, he could tell this had the potential to spark an argument - that sharp Auzzie accent just jumps out like a Tasmanian Devil, teeth bare and all, he had to save himself from another blood spill (not self-inflicted, this time), “Oh, you weren’t a sacrifice. Neither was the soft serve. Or the money, really. It was more a figure of speech.” 

“Was it.” They tilt their head to the side, _God I just hate when they do this,_ he’s tempted to imitate them but that would just piss them off more - it’s yet another power move to add to the pile.  _ You’re trying to make me admit that this was a loss for me, well, _

“Yes. It  _ is _ \-- a figure of speech. I mean. Pops - if I didn’t want you working alongside me,” A pause, “As an equal,” Another pause, “ _ Eq-ual _ ,” He has to emphasize it - not only to make them feel how-shall-we-say, ah, yes,  _ equal _ to  _ him _ \- but to remind himself that this is not a competition. It is cooperative. A shared partnership. They are both each others… helping hands. Hell, they probably need reminding of that, too. “I wouldn’t have offered you it. You were on the brink! If you had a chance to go anywhere else you would’ve! But I - I wanted you to enjoy working here. I didn’t want you to hate it, and - you’re talented, you know.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh, scrunching his lips up - flinging his hands up in the air dramatically, “It’s the least you deserve.”

“Ah!--Ian, the--”  _ Oh shit the _ , “--glare! Don’t you have a curtain or something for that fucking skylight?”

“Well, sor- _ ree  _ fussypants, it’s not MY fault you’ve had impaired vision most of your life. I can’t help tha-” As he lowers his arms, he is broken off mid-sentence with a hiss, and Poppy quickly (after rubbing their eyes) puts their glasses back on to see Ian winging, recoiling back at some pain - located, under his armpit?

“Holy shit, are you alright? What happened?”

Ian looks up at them - it’s a weird, momentary, desperate look, almost as if he’s begging them not to say anything - or ask anymore questions - or, “Fuck - you have cancer don’t you? You idiot, why didn’t you say something? Bronchiectasis? Can you breathe? Is it something terminal, deadly, debilitating?”

“Jesus Christ, no!” For a second Poppy holds where his hand is, just to help steady him - and he looks,  _ terrified _ _._ “J--just stop jumping to conclusions,” He brushes their hand away and walks, slightly arched, to his leather chair, surrounded by energy bar wrappers, his prized d&d figure of The White Knight (despite never playing d&d in his life) and empty cans upon cans of cream soda, “Okay?”

They blink. At this point, they’re just frustrated - he’s clearly trying to hide something, “No. You only hide a problem if it’s gonna get in the way of work - of Mythic Quest - it’s gotta be bad. You’re a workaholic, like me--”

“No--no, I am, more of a spontaneous  _ artist _ , I don’t  _ want _ to work, I’m just lucky enough to have the drive---”

“Ian, stop steering the conversation away.”

“Steering, good one Pops, you know---I’ve been thinking of buying a new Chevrolet---”

“Ian.”

“Fine. What do you want to know? Huh? ---My health, is--is none of your goddamn business, okay?” 

They were tempted to just walk out, honestly - but, it’s concerning, especially after today, how flawless it’s all gone, Blood Ocean going live, Poppy earning her shovel - not just metaphorically, but the actual damn thing! Plus everybody in mq being civil for once, it’s so... tranquil. Then, boom, Ian has health issues, and to be fair, even small, underlying ones can lead to much bigger, more detrimental illnesses, and they just wanted to make sure - everything was okay. 

“ _ Okay _ _._ ” They relax themselves; he’s just being defensive, don’t bite back, just talk it out, “Maybe it isn’t -- but, I don’t have to know,  _ what _ , it is. I just want to know it’s not going to kill you.”

“Of course it’s not!” He pauses. At this rate with how defensive and jumpy he is about it, he might just cause his own cardiac arrest,  _ still _ . “I am okay. I swear.”

Somehow, they’re still dissatisfied. But, they knew not to prod. “...Alright.”

That ends the discussion, they suppose, on a rather, confusing note, not that,  _ again _ \- they have to remind themselves - they have the right to ask.  _ He _ has the right to disclose his health problems, and it’s true and they know it - Poppy looks down at Ian with an easy eye, exchanges a soft smile and turns on heir heel. 

“Goddammit.”

Maybe, they shouldn’t be so happy to hear it -- could be yet another weird, possibly, embarrassing infection for him? Possibly one of the underarm variety? -- But they were. Finally some transparency in this building made of opaque fucking concrete.

“Promise, not to tell anybody, okay? I’m serious.”

“I promise.” And they mean it. Even if the exact seriousness of the situation doesn’t entirely make it to them.

“Alright. You---you know I went to have a hernia operation a few weeks back,”

“Yes… And David covered and it was a disaster and Brad had to take over...”

“Yes, yes, those few weeks…” he rolls his hand with his explanation, the light - thankfully not hitting his really overzealous amount of rings now that he was sat away from that damned glow, “...Well, you see, Pops. It wasn’t a hernia.”

“...Shocking. You literally did jogging around the building in skin-tight clothes - there were no visible lumps. It was pretty obvious you just wanted a few weeks off.” Poppy pauses and then restates, teetering on apologetically, “But, now -- I know there actually might’ve been a reason for it. So.”

“Yes, if you _ let me continue,  _ uh. Now.”

Silence befalls his high office space, he spies Maria as the last one out and whispers a little ‘adios’ despite her having zero chance of seeing or being able to lipread it from where she worked, then he realizes how late it is - how is it already almost 4 pm? Okay, that’s not late but...  _ Wow, time sure flies when you’re trying to admit something you’ve never wanted to admit to anyone in your adult life, ever.  _ But have, a few times. More than you’d like. More than you can count. Somehow it doesn’t get any easier and he can’t fathom why. 

(He can. But he  _ doesn’t .) _

“I don’t have all day you know.” Poppy begins, their tone a lot more aggressive than intended before they quickly picked it up again, “I’m sure you’d rather have me coding than keep me in suspense for the next few hours. Make it quick - rip off that bandaid. You never know, it might make this all... feel a lot better.”

_ It won’t. It doesn’t. _

“Okay. Okay.” He slaps his hands down onto his legs and almost grapples them as he steadies himself. Breathing is still laboured, slightly delayed, and Poppy is just staring intently - this has got to be huge. Devastating, even. 

“Here goes. Uh.” He sucks air up and breathes out, a whiff of peppermint gum shooting Pop’s way that he’d sucked all life from and hit the bin floor moments before they entered his room, “I’m trans.”

Poppy blinks. 

“...Wait. That’s it? What’s… What’s the joke here? Ian--”

“Look, I know---I  _ know _ _,_ you’re trans too---we have a trans-friendly work environment, apart from Jo, she really needs to get her act together, honestly. I don’t know  _ how _ many times I said we should fire her. But I - I should’ve told you sooner - I thought about doing it, because I’ve just been wanting to get it off my chest for a while now -- oh, that’s good, very  _ ironic _ \-- but we’re a gaming company and if that ever got out and I lost this, hyper-masculine Alpha image I’ve built all this time---”

“Ian. You dope.” They approach him on the chair and gesture him to stand - so he does. Arms wrap around him - tenderly - and try not to irritate his underarm area. “I can’t even begin to explain how stupid that is. Like. Genuinely.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t know.” He gently pushes them away. “It doesn’t get any easier. Even to say it to you.”

Poppy looks up at him, draws their lips back in uncertainty. “Why?” 

He grits his teeth behind that mass of coal-colored fuzz lining his face, sitting back down - there are countless answers to that question, many of which he couldn’t even put into words, fraudulent isn’t the word he’d use - he can pretend, he’s very good at it, he likes playing his part, this macho cutout - but he just feels, incomplete, once, once people know. The illusion is shattered. Suddenly his perfectly curated image consisting of 90s action movies, lifting weights and Pig Destroyer CDs is distorted and at the mercy of online gaming publications and his dearest Subreddit. A hammer to glass. Old China to stone. Shovel to penis. “...Because, everytime I admit it, I have to  _ think _ about it. How I’m not, I’m not what people see me as. I’m something other. Something-- something, lesser.”

Poppy shakes their head. Sure, they understand that feeling - intrinsically - but that doesn’t mean it should shape you so, deeply. “But, that’s-- Ian, you know that’s not true.”

“Oh Pops - I  _ know _ _._ I know that it isn’t. Doesn’t help the fact that it always feels like it is.”

How long has he felt like this? 

Is this what all his painfully smug and oblivious walls are for? Sure, doesn’t excuse his manipulative melodrama but - maybe, it explains a lot. Too much, even. This overworking of masculinity, stretching it so paper thin you can see it start to tear. It’s… depressing, sure, but understandable in this industry, and in America of all places, and that’s the saddest part. It’s all part of the role you play if you want to slip in seamlessly to normality. “...Paul, the White Knight rig, this - masculine, power play shit,” 

“I wouldn’t say it’s  _ all _ part of it…”

“No. But,” It is though, at least partially, and they sigh, “...You did treat Paul badly though. He’s a really nice guy.”

“He gets to be.”

“Oh come on.” They pause, and grab a swivel chair from the other side of the room, “Don’t bottle up this jealousy just to take it out on other dudes, your misogyny, too. You haven’t gotta keep that in your veins to be a man.” They sit and shuffle awkwardly towards him.

“Now, see, I think a lotta people would want to debate you on that one.” 

“I don’t give a fuck, Ian.” They put their hand on his, “I’m not saying you gotta tell the world - it is dangerous. I’m not gonna contest that. Just, don’t be so glum about it. I know it’s hard, but it’s better for you if you try to accept it. For  _ you _ _._ Nobody else.”

They notice Ian turn, just a tad, “Thanks Poptart.”

“Hey, anytime.”

They don’t walk away, like Ian was expecting. Poppy, doesn’t particularly want to leave, after finding this out - it’s weird to say but it strengthens this fucked up little chain they have tied tight to each other. He’s not looking at them now, and there’s no noise from the clacking of keyboards beyond, coding and further improvement on the new assets was halted early for a bit of a break today, he pushes them so hard that they need this momentary rest. Otherwise the whole department would just end up burning out. Poppy feels compelled to stay, mainly because of this tense energy that still lingers the air - he’s not gonna top himself or anything - but there’s this sadness they want to disperse. Ian’s never… an emotional guy, so this darkening mood encompassing his room doesn’t just go away. It permeates.  And it worries them, a little bit, if anything. 

“You know, I told you the story about -- being named after my dad.”

“Yeah.”

“Obviously. I made that up.” He admits, crackling voice growing quieter and quieter as he continues. “I - I named myself after him---as a way to like, honor him, I guess? I felt guilty and when I was younger I still, um, I still loved him at that time. I didn’t know, so I, uh...”

“That’s why you changed the pronunciation.”

“Because,” He turns again, only really the back of his head is visible now - before bringing one of his hands up to his face to cover his eyes, quickly, wiping, “Because he was a piece of shit after - after it all... Yeah.”

Poppy merely looks across to him, but he doesn’t return the gaze. 

It’s agonizing, now. He knows this is why he was so obsessed with playing this hero they molded virtually, bombastic and bold, the strongest avatar in-game - stripping down and controlling this caricature of man, having his likeness half-naked on billboards, pushing his luck with guys double his height, he wanted to fight his own transness. Try to force it out. To pretend it just isn’t there. Doesn’t exist. But it’s a battle he won’t win. Mainly because it’s with himself.  He knew this, recognized it all along but bottled it up - all whilst shaking the damn thing when it’s carbonated. Now it’s bubbling over. Ready to detonate in on itself. His whole frame is aching for this to stop, but  _ what is there _ to stop? How can you stop this ever-elusive, unknowable _something_ when that ever-elusive, unknowable  something is _you?_

There’s this faint trembling, overtaking his body - fuck, not now, not  _ here. _ Poppy watches for a second, and knows he’s crying. It’s soft, it’s silent, it’s ashamed, disgusted, vulnerable. Dry heaves that sound like he’s been stabbed in the gut. It’s painful to hear - and strange, all that exuberant confidence has simply dissipated into the wind, crumbled for a rare minute - they put a steady hand on his shoulder, and keep eyes fixed on him.

“Ian, look at me.”

“...No, Pops.”

“Please.”

He moves, slightly, sunken and frail - this posturing of broad shoulders and stern, forever-lost-in-thought expression has given way to bloodshot eyes and a sweater blotched with stains. He doesn’t face them fully, he doesn’t have the strength to.

“...You keep this whole company afloat. You are the head of it. You come up with all of it. You are fucking batshit,” It cracks a half-smile, at least, “But you keep everybody motivated. Ian, you are more than this - crap in your head that keeps you afraid of yourself.”

“I’m not afraid.” It’s spoken like a petulant, moody child. 

“You are.” He turns, fully, and the extent of his break is barely visible - the cracks are there though - light, soon to be filled and covered over but - they’re clear enough that they can see this is a conversation he’s needed for a long time. “But that’s alright. It’s okay - I understand. I know why you’re scared. I know why you take this… image so seriously. ...You--you can let your guard down, now and again, though.”

He looks away from Poppy, the strain in the air has alleviated itself somewhat, but it’s clear it’s been drilled into his head how he should act. What he has to prove. The fact that he will never be a man no matter how much effort is put into presentation, voice and gesture. It’s not a falsehood, but, it is - isn’t it? “What’s the point.” He looks to the shovel bestowed in his office - Poppy needs to collect that today. Take it home. Cherish it. “If I bring my guard down, that’ll only make me weaker. I don’t... want that.”

“It doesn’t make you weaker, Ian. It doesn’t make you less of a man.” They look to the floor. “I’m not saying you have to become a David 2.0. I’m just saying, honesty, is a good thing - at least between us. I’m glad I know you better now - heck, I’m glad I know  _ you _ . I’m--I’m happy that you told me. It takes guts.”

_ It does, doesn’t it. _

Ian smiles, further at that. 

_ Huzzah _ _!_ A long while of straight misery is finally met with an intermission of brief relief. 

He rubs his nose along his sleeve (Poppy screws their face up at that, come on man - you must have a box of tissues  _ somewhere _ ) and takes a deep breath inward. “You, you know, for that trailer I showed a while back, they green screened my chest on. Just said I had a few deep scars from a stunt I did and I was too embarrassed to show it… Too badass for virgin viewers who’d never seen me before, that was, my main excuse.”  Poppy chuckles at that. They know him well enough to see it as a flatout lie - if he had a ‘badass scar’ there he would show it off like there’s no tomorrow. Especially in promotional material. “...Now,” He starts, with a gentle hit to his chest, “I have two badass scars that I think said virgin viewers could just about handle.”

_ Ah _ \- he must be slow to recover. Tightness in the chest is one issue for recovery. They see now, they understand now - it all makes sense - without him explaining much at all.

“You think?” Poppy sees a glint in his eye that’s youthful, fiery but excitable - not this brooding sorrow and rage that’s been stirred on a low simmer for years. The heat fuelling it had seemingly calmed itself to sparks and whispers of smoke, enough to keep him going, but not too much as to burn him out and leave him hollow.

“I don’t see why not.”

They smirk, a spike of slight energy causing them to fidget in their seat, “...We’ll keep that in mind for the next rollout of ads. They’ll be our best ones yet!”

“They will…” He says, with not much conviction, “They will!”  _ There _ it is. “We’ll make the best adverts anybody has ever seen, Pop, if critics could award them Emmy’s they would - I can see it now, a whole awards show made just for adverts, kickstarted into production based on how fucking kickass our ones will be.”

“Wow, you’re really going above and beyond with this idea, huh.” 

“You know that’s the only way I can do things. Intensely obsessed and focused on the tiniest of details, or completely unbothered by the whole process.” He taps at his rings and looks at Poppy, his fire is back - the tamed and non-self destructive type - that’s for sure, “There’s no inbetween. All out, or all in.”

“Believe me, mate, I’ve noticed.”

“What’ll it be?” He returns the earlier hand holding - and cups theirs gently, his smile is wistful now, unburdened, even, “What d’ya say, Pop. All in?”

“I didn’t leave you for Cold Alliance, you dolt.” 

“That’s because you couldn’t - if I remember correctly,”

“Don’t push it."

A quiet, playful ‘alright-alright’ comes out of his mouth. He’s hopeful, and it’s a stupid question (after that promotion and that entrance to the upper level, why the fuck would they walk out now? But it’s clear he still has his doubts) -- “Of course I’m all in.”

“Agh! _Popp-ay!_ ” He leaps out of his chair and almost manages to scoop them up out of theirs, before realizing the pressure he was putting on his chest (and how tender it still was) and dropping them, abruptly back onto the safety of the carpet floor. An abundance of expletives comes and goes, and they’re both laughing despite it. “Fuck---I really need to not strain myself this week… I keep sabotaging the healing process because I keep lifting and stretching the skin.”

“Yeesh - maybe.  _ Don’t _ _?_ Do that?”

“That’s like asking a fish not to SWIM, Pop.”

“I’m sure you can take a few days off. Your physique isn’t gonna turn to putty.”

“But what if it does?”

“...Ian, seriously,” They pause for a second, “shut up and take my advice for once.”

He grins, solemnly, behind that bushy beard of his, “Okay Pop. I’ll try my best.”

A grin is returned in tandem, and Poppy is caught in this moment - office place relationships were bizarre, but Ian was like a brother to them despite the initial push and pull. Beyond egotistical and frustrating, yes, but these moments of clarity only make it worth it, he’d always have their back, and they’d always have his. It was a kind of dynamic that felt always on the edge of crazed hyperactivity, but was safe enough to not jump right off into a pit of miscommunication and actually hurtful arguments. Harmless arguments were commonplace, however.

“I think.. I gotta go now, now that you’re good - but I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah! We can start brainstorming our new expansion if you’re feeling up for it.”

“That would be amazing.” They feel themselves tearing up, they’re sure he can see that annoying shine you always get when the tears start, “Have a good one, Ian. You’re the man.”

“Thanks, Pops. Seriously.” There’s a waver in his voice, “Thank you.”

They only nod, and smile in that particular way that knows he means it. They walk out of his office - not before a mandatory goodbye wave - and try not to burst into tears until they leave the building, just because they didn’t want him to think the discussion cut that deep. And, they didn’t particularly want to get him crying again. It’s been a good day - no, a  _ great _ day, and it can only go up from here. Crisp autumn air fills their lungs as they approach the bus stop, and they let out a few sobs, nothing too violent or uncontrollable - just relieved. Thank God nobody else is here to ask questions. 

“I’m the man.” He echoes their sentiment. _ It’s not like he doesn’t know it  _ \- cue a rolling of eyes, as he fits snuggly back into his egoism - obviously, there isn’t room for doubt in this moment, he feels whole again. Unafraid in this body, in this room, in this moment in time. “I’m the _man.”_ He says it again, louder, and aims his sights towards the shovel, raising it high (already forgetting Poppy’s advice, naturally) and almost hitting his dangling, rustic ceiling light. “ _I’M THE MAN!_ \--AH--Ow-fuck--fuckshit---”

He hurts his chest, again.

“Okay--fine, listen to Poppy. Don’t strain the arms. Don’t strain the…” He looks back down at the shovel, wait, wasn’t Poppy meant to collect it to take home? “Shit.”

Their striped jumper was that annoying type of cotton that was soft but not soft enough to comfort blotchy red skin after it’s been obliterated with salt water - instead only adding to the irritation. Maybe they were allergic to the material, actually, huh, that’s something to look into when they get ho--- “Poppy! Pop!”

They look toward the sidewalk where they can see Ian sprinting towards them like some frightening fucking afternoon jumpscare, adorned in all-black like a gothic bus-stop murderer, “What. Ian what are you--”

“The shovel. The… The shovel you… you, forgot…”

“...I, don’t want to take the shovel on---” They could be a really big gardening enthusiast - that could be an explanation if anybody gives them too much trouble, “---I, okay. Thanks Ian.”

“Anytime.” 

He runs back towards MQ, out of sight hardly seconds after he handed it over, and they can feel the eyes of the other two people who’d arrived and were waiting, piercing through the back of their skull. It’s fine - just a few more minutes. And then you’ll be on the bus with a shovel in hand and a puffy face so clearly all reddened and raw up from crying. That’s  _ fine _ _._ They smile a little bit - it’s so stupid, so dumb, but it’s funny as shit. They can make it work.

The doors fly open and Ian is met with an entirely empty building. 

Nothing but artwork of his world, his designs, his characters, his landscapes, all painted so beautifully, complimenting colors and perfected poses posted up on the walls, with the dusty black screens of the many a hundred computers vaguely reflecting his likeness. He hasn’t really got anywhere else to go. Not much to do. Nobody to see.

He was tempted to call up Pop and see if they wanted to help organize a VERY last minute party where he shoots up everybody’s phones to see who would want to get plastered as a worthy end to a magnificent event launch - but they were already going home. And, he’d already pestered them with the shovel - it would only be detrimental to annoy them further. David, maybe? No, he’s probably already xanax’d out or crying about his ex-wife. Brad? --Definitely not. There’s no profit in it for him, only a net loss. 

He looks towards his office, and slowly makes his way there.

Home doesn’t feel right to go back to, just yet. In fact, no - he’s not having this soppy realization. Is he? MQ feels, more like a home than home, if that makes sense. Which it doesn’t, obviously, this is a workplace not a glorious hillside villa with a pool and it’s own, magical, overgrown garden… 

And yet, he’s still not collecting his things and locking up.

“ _Ian!_ How wonderful to see you - don’t mind me I’m just looking for some scraps.”

Turns out it’s not so empty. His office has an old man rummaging for any remainder of snacks. “C.W? What are you doing here?”

“Well, dear boy, I sometimes take refuge in this lovely abode from time to time. Do you have any food, per-se, I am absolutely famished.”

The clear answer was to say no and go on with sitting in your leather chair pondering stuff, and things, entirely unrelated to the conversation that panned out twenty minutes ago. But he smiles - what the hell, “Sure. I have a mini-fridge under the desk - and there’s that soft serve out in the lobby.”

“Soft serve ice cream? Oh! how phenomenal! I must grab a cone straight away!”

“Knock yourself out, buddy.” 

The senile gramp seemingly regains some lost youth at that statement - giddy at the thought of a ice-cold vanilla swirl, taking off as fast as he can, leaving the door half open in the process. Note to self: install a secret shower for him at some point before he becomes a walking stink-bomb that snuffs out any wax melts lining the walls - he always forgets he resides here overnight like a drunk, washed up suited raccoon. Ian closes his door and locks it, at least he’s satisfied, and more importantly: not starving, because that would cause a massive scandal if it got out.

The mirror across his room stands tall. Looms - and produces a much clearer copy than the black voids that stare and warped his resemblance before. He loves staring at it - at himself, he’s fucking gorgeous. Duh. But in this moment, this second, there’s less of an underlying narcissism, and more of an acceptance not born out of spite - or plain materialism drooling over the outer aesthetic; this refusal to actually _look._ He’s seeing it alright. 

“You’re the man, Ian.”

He lifts his sweater up to his shoulder - and sees the scar. He hadn’t properly looked at it since the surgery - he had looked at his chest, sure, admired it at a distance, and intensely so but not… He hadn’t seen the scar itself. Or much rather, avoided, looking at it. He’d much rather prefer to see it heal over but, facing it head-on, brings a simple relief unlike anything else he’d ever felt, this release of pressure that’d been oppressing him all his life, an intrinsic understanding of himself beyond externalities. It’s as if something clicked. That final piece, that berids the shame and emptiness he fights off with an inflated ego and willful ignorance. Acceptance, after all this time, embraces soft and doesn’t let go, it cushions the long and hard fall to the bottom. There is no relapse into disgust, hatred, melancholy. 

There is just you. 

“...It  _ is _ pretty badass, isn’t it.”

“ _ IAN _ _!_ ”

He rolls his shirt back down and immediately darts to unlock the door, “What?!”

C.W has come hobbling over to his door, with an empty, somewhat wet and pathetic looking cone, “IAN - it’s an emergency, the dispenser is stuck. I think someone stuck various toppings into it and now all I get are the sad remnants of a few faintly vanilla doused m&m’s.”

He sticks his head out, “I’ll get you one of my energy bars for now, C.W. I’ll get that stuff out of it later, alright?”

“Thank you, Ian. Do you reckon you could spare a blueberry?”

He rolls his eyes and walks over to his stash, grabbing the last one (if I wasn’t feeling so nice you’d be getting chocolate), “Yeah,” He hands it to C.W, “Enjoy it man. Try not to starve in here.”

“Don’t you worry, Ian. I have survived many a moon here and will continue to evade certain death.” He removes an imaginary hat from his head and bows, “Now farewell to you sir… In another life, may we meet again…”

“Okay, alright, try not to trip down the stairs--yeah, okay. Bye. Yep-- see ya, okay, alright!---” He slams the door shut. Let’s be honest he isn’t fixing that machine tonight.

He returns to where he stood before. Where he stood when Poppy arrived. Thinking about his name - about that damn ice cream - but he looks at himself to find, himself. Not a disembodied somebody with a rockin’ hot bod, not a disingenuous imitation of his father (may his soul rest in the pits of Hell, he’s not dead yet, but the more you mention it the closer he gets) - but a whole new person that was there all along: Ian Grimm. _The_ Ian Grimm, the legend, the myth, the  _ man _ _._ Finally. 

He’s found himself.


End file.
